


the box

by Anonymous



Category: Chess - Rice/Ulvaeus/Andersson
Genre: Gen, Introspection, Unedited Garbage, this is really weird, transcribed from handwriting so there are. cut off parts sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-15 02:02:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18064463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: lucid dreaming can come in just a hyper-awareness of the insides of a concrete room. anatoly thinks back on his past(originially written as an assignment, unedited)





	the box

No windows except a small square of light, walls that did not reach 3 meters in width, cramped. The small room hwas what could be classified as a jail cell, but it did not even reach that status. It was just simply that - a small cramped, stuffy room with barely enough light. The walls from what he could tell were pure concrete, the door was metal with an outside lock and a small pane to open - also from the outside. 

It was unusual, how he could describe this so vividly, but was it really a surprise? Countless years of being stuck there in your sleep could maybe be the reason - who knows? - and it could make anyone be unnerved. But not Anatoly, for he was a smart man, reigning chess world champion. He was not stupid enough to not realize that for nearly two decades he had been stuck in this tiny box for all he knows. A box was just that, a box. A tiny box that was the subconscious visual representation of his freedom. He did not know much outside this box, but sometimes he did, and it was a novelty.

Sometimes, he could see a tree from what the small square of light could offer as a window. Green specks flooded the light, coating the room it its jade. He could not see much, but recurring memories reminded Anatoly that it was indeed the tree in the yard of his childhood home. It didn’t exist anymore, of course, it was in the middle of an active warzone. The realization that this was all but a vivid dream seemed to make the tree explode into flames, reduced to its rightful state in the world of the present. The flames licked at the wall’s other side, possibly charring it darker than it probably was. Amber hues and shadows frolicked inside, and it was bright for the first time. The fluid movement of the flames were unrestrained - free! - and he could not stop himself from wishing that it burned down this box, wishing that he could be b the flames outside as well. Eventually, they faded away into a pile of charred ash. Time has passed on, leaving the man behind in his thoughts and the Earth still rotated on its axis. Time is still universal, dream or not. Soon it was dark, and the sky was draped with amethyst and burgundy. Paving the way for stars to start shining in the fabric of space. It was a beautiful sky, yet the time Anatoly hated most.

That day was clear in his memory. A ratty boy he was in the reform of Russia still had a passion for chess, he silently thanked the public parks for having chess tables there. Everyday after school, a young  boy would challenge any that came before him, managing to beat the,. That day, that foolish young boy was too engrossed in this (smth) to even notice that rain clouds had approached and when he did, it was too late. Running home from the park was a tedious task, as he did not have that many clothes and would be soaked if he headed straight home. So he decided to stand under an awning at the bust stop nearby, mumbling complaints to an unknown guest. Before young Anatoly realized that there was actually someone ther, the person had spoken.

“You play chess well, boy.” A deep voice rumbled over the pouring rain outside, drawing the boy’s attention. He doubted that this man could be - how did he even know that Anatoly played well? Nevertheless, stranger danger failed to warn him and the schoolboy had lent his ear for the man.

“Do you want to play for the nation?”

The question rang through the rain, filling the awning with a sense of seriousness, and in that thick aiir, opportunity. Anatoly loved chess. He could only assume what playing for the nation meant. Training with the current grandmaster, representing Russia internationally? Did he even have the ability to do such important things?

“Think it over kid. Call this number once you have an answer.” The man handed Anatoly a small scrap of paper, the words “A.Molokov” and a series of numbers. What a young and naive boy he was, actually taking up that chance. That chance for money, to support his family, but anchored his life to a board of black and white. Not that he could complain, chess was simple.

Grey walls were around him again. The small light of the square peephole to the outside world still shone in, its dim illumination left shadows in the corders. Stuck in this tiny container, he realizes he could still do one thing. A chessboard laid in the middle of the space, immediately catching Anatoly’s attention. The illusionary calls of freedom within those 64 squares were alluring. Even now the board called to him, even now its pieces were like crutches. The player shuffled towards tit, and picked up the pieces again. 

Not even this tiny wretched box of containment can stop him from what he wanted to do and have always done.

**Author's Note:**

> if you managed to read through this, i congratulate you. also chess deserves a revival


End file.
